


The Death Of A Leader

by Kymopoleia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:44:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kymopoleia/pseuds/Kymopoleia





	The Death Of A Leader

Adrenaline pumping, Hearts breaking  
You shun the ones who couldn't make it  
When really you never would.

You don't fight hard enough,  
Your strategies are simple  
And you too weak.

But I am ready to fight the battle,  
Beat the bitch and cull her  
Smiling as she takes her final breath.

If I were to lay my wrists before you,  
And you would be too weak to cut them.  
What leader are you, when they could have me?

I am the only one, it seems,  
In this battle of wits  
That has any wit at all!

So I take my double edges sword-  
Well, it's more of a trident, really.  
And push the prongs inside you.

Then I jerk my weapon back,  
Staring as you fall to the floor.  
Goodbye, dearest sister.

Then I turn, ready to take my birthright  
And see Her, Our dear mother, grinning.  
I have my weapon ready, and she, hers.

It seems an age before she moves,  
Rushing towards me,  
Her volumes of hair flowing behind her.

I see her weak point, and in the last moment,  
I point my blade to her heart,  
And cackle when it pierces her, all the way through.

Her face is frozen in disbelief  
"How can this have happened?"  
As she slumps, dead, to the floor.

My fingers snap, and all the onlookers fall to their knees.  
"What do you wish, Milady Meenah?" a servant asks.  
I twist his neck, and the third body hits the floor.

Mother's military advisor, a huge, mounstrous man,  
Quakes with fear when I go to him.  
"You are dismissed." I say coolly.

"And all the rest are too."  
"I need those I can trust,"  
"And that describes none of you."

With a flip of my hair, I begin to leave the room.  
But then, I pause.  
Something I see displeases me.

That girl, the one I've known all my life,  
Struggles for breath as blood gushes out her throat.  
I kneel down, and look her in the eyes.

"PL-EAS-E" she whispers, voice wet.  
She knows of the powers I have,  
And I know I am unwilling to use them.

So instead of saving her, my best friend,  
I kiss her on the lips and slash her throat,  
Using the fuscha to paint my cheeks.

I call for a servant, and one comes.  
I tell the olive blood to gather all the fuscha  
And put it into jars. What better purpose?

I go to rest, sitting not-so-daintily upon my throne.  
Days, weeks, months pass. I am beloved.  
But the image of them never leaves my mind,  
Not even when the next heiress rests in my arms.


End file.
